Back at Your Door
by notesofwimsey
Summary: She has everything she needs, everything she could want. So why is she standing here, a hand raised to knock on his door? EllieCasey Rated for language and adult situations
1. Chapter 1: Back at Your Door

_Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended._

_A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Back at Your Door"._

_Summary: She has everything she needs, everything she could want. So why is she standing here, a hand raised to knock on his door?_

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Back at Your Door

It doesn't mean anything, you try to convince yourself. You are committed, body and soul, to someone else, a man you live with, share your life with. You have everything in common, and a future that holds the promise of everything you have ever wanted.

But every time you see that dark, brooding figure who seems to have suddenly invaded your life, your mouth goes dry, your palms grow damp, and you have to fight to keep your hands from reaching out to touch him.

And he knows, dammit. Oh, he knows. He can see your pupils dilate, feel your breathing come a little harder and faster when he locks those burning eyes on your lips, on your breasts. That smirk, that habit he has of looming over you slightly, as if to remind you of his powerful physical presence: he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

You usually are careful to stay away from him, to keep social interaction just that – social. He is Chuck's friend, after all – well, perhaps friend is the wrong word. Chuck seems to regard him with an infinite amount of trust and a healthy dose of fear.

Much the way you do, actually.

You turn away impatiently from the sink where you are cleaning up the last of the dishes from your ruined Thanksgiving dinner. You sigh as you look at the nearly untouched turkey, the mounds of sweet potatoes still covered in more marshmallows than any reasonably mature person could ever wish to see, much less eat, and the dessert no one stayed long enough to taste.

Devon has gone on a run, saying he needed to work off some of the dinner he managed to put away without interruption, before going back to hospital for his next shift. Chuck has gone off with Sarah again, and Morgan has chased off after his intense little girlfriend, for which you give a sigh of grateful thanksgiving that would not have been out of place in a cathedral with full choral accompaniment.

You are restless, anxious. You don't know exactly is wrong with you, but you cannot sit or settle to anything. Idly, you pull a sliver of breast meat off the turkey you are about to wrap up, and put it in your mouth. Your eyes narrow, and you quickly cut off several pieces, adding generous helpings of the other dishes, and cut a large slice of the apple and cranberry pie you made that afternoon. Before you can think too hard about what you are doing, you pick up the container and walk over to John Casey's apartment.

You knock quietly; the lights are not on, but you have noticed that John often seems to prefer the dark. Coming home at all hours from your hospital shifts, you have often seen him standing at the window, as if he is watching for someone.

He opens the door suddenly, and you gasp with shock. His face, always impassive, is tight and set, as if with anger or fear, and he glances over your shoulder quickly before taking your arm none too gently and pulling your into the living room.

Once he closes the door, he seems to realize he has frightened you, and you can see him shake off the mood. He smiles at you, that polite smile that never seems to quite reach his eyes, and says, "Ellie. What a surprise. Can I help you with something?"

You smile a little tremulously and hold out the container of leftovers you prepared. "I thought … that is … Devon left for work, and I thought you might want … to finish your dinner. Everyone seemed to have to leave – suddenly."

Your voice comes out a little thready, and he smiles again, a little more genuinely this time, as he takes the container and glances at it. "Thank you. All my favourites, I see."

You nod and hold out the plate with the piece of pie. "No one stayed for dessert," you say softly. "And I wanted to know … if it tasted good, I mean."

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out and breaks off a piece of the pie, lifting it to his mouth and placing it on his tongue. "Delicious," he says, his voice just above a whisper.

You reach out a hand, willing it not to tremble, and wipe a smear of filling from the corner of his mouth, "You missed some."

His hand moves so quickly, you gasp again as he grabs you and presses your palm against his mouth, flickering the tip of his tongue across it before putting the food on a table by the door and pulling you closer. "You should leave right now, Ellie."

You shudder – his deep husky voice strokes you like a rough hand, adding to your sense of dangerous excitement. "I have nowhere to be." You try to say it provocatively, but your voice is shaky and needy as you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pressing your body tightly against him.

When his mouth comes down on yours, every thought but one flees crying from you: "More! More! Closer!" You whimper when he pushes you up against the door, his mouth forcing yours open. You can feel his desire hard against you, and you move your hips, enticing him without words.

Some men would have pulled away at this point, nobly checking to be sure that this was really what you wanted. Casey has one hand under your skirt before you can do more than moan, his breath hitching when he runs his fingers along cool bare skin. Your cheeks flush as you envision Devon's face should he come home and see your cast-off panties lying in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Casey's mouth is on your neck, his tongue laving the frantic pulse beating in your throat, your breasts bared by a casual exploratory hand. His fingers are thrusting deep into your pussy, which has been wet since you left your own apartment. When he thumbs your clit, you come hard, harder than you can ever remember, but it is not enough. It is nowhere near enough, and you have him ready to go in a stroke or two. He is hard and thick and you wrap your legs around him and push, begging in a thin needy whine for him to fill you.

His hands wrap around your ass, lifting you and then plunging deep inside you and you scream as his teeth scrape your nipple and he stretches you in one thrust that feels as if he is going to pierce your heart with his cock. He doesn't even pause, beginning a rhythmic pounding that constricts your lungs. Your head is banging against the solid door, and his fingers are wedged between your cheeks and you can feel him getting harder as your juices pour over him. It should hurt. It should hurt, but it feels too good for that and you tilt your hips so that he is riding your clit as he grinds into you. You can feel the tightness in your pussy; you are clenched around him like a fist around a staff and he is moaning and licking your breasts, sucking on each nipple in turn until you sob.

Your hands dive into his hair and you pull his mouth back to yours, nipping and biting as he plunges his tongue into you in sync with his cock and when you come this time, he swallows your scream and then throbs inside you as he shoots his load so deep you swear you can taste it in the back of your throat. You convulse around him, milking him until he shudders and nearly collapses against you.

It hurts to bring your legs down; you have a cramp in your thigh and you are going to have bruises on your neck. He is still hard inside you, and as he pulls reluctantly out, you can feel the mingled fluids running down your thighs. Your eyes are wide and frightened; this is not why you came here tonight, you tell yourself. You push away from him, relieved beyond measure when he lets you – he so easily could not – and open the door behind you, saying quickly, under your breath, "This was a mistake. I didn't want this."

But you know you lie. And he knows you lie. And if he courteously allows you to get away with it, it is only because he knows – he knows – you will be back.


	2. Chapter 2: Harder to Breathe

_Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended._

_A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Harder to Breathe"._

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**Harder to Breathe**

You go home and climb into a shower. But no matter how hot the water is, you feel his hands on you. No matter how many times you brush your teeth, you taste him on you. 

And when Devon comes home from his shift, you greet him in the dark, begging for him to make you feel everything – anything. And in the morning light, when he sees the marks on your throat and breast, he apologizes, eyes wide and horrified, until you want to scream and confess everything, but you don't. You kiss him sweetly and tell him he's the best and you loved it, every minute of it, and he shouldn't feel guilty about making you feel so good – so awesome – and he finally stops saying anything, although he treats you like china for days afterwards and you can feel his apology in every touch.

And the guilt sits in your stomach and you can't eat and no one notices – no one notices. Chuck is wrapped up in his increasingly strained relationship with Sarah, who is sexy and beautiful and seems sweet and yet you can feel a reluctance in her, and you don't understand it, because on the surface, all the moves in the relationship come from her. There are secrets in her eyes and she seems to be pulling Chuck in with her – your dear little brother who has always been too smart and too easily hurt.

And Morgan who has always hung around, watching you with his dark and desperate eyes, who has been the peripheral add-on to every family occasion nearly as long as you have been a family, is no longer there. Anna has drawn a line in the sand, and seeing as Anna's sandbox includes uninhibited sex in indiscreet and sometimes illegal places, you have finally been replaced in Morgan's fantasies, if not in the secret centre of his heart.

And there is no one to notice your anger and pain and intense grinding desire for something you should not want, something you should not ever have reached out for. Like a child drawn to flame, you have been burned and it hurts. It hurts. But you find yourself reaching out, night after night, fighting the desire to seek it out again

And so, when you find yourself at his door again, you have to turn off your brain, because your yearning is doing all the talking and it has been ten days – ten nights – and now it is Sunday morning and Devon has gone on a road trip with some college buddies to watch grown men throw balls and tackles at each other and you hurt, you burn, with need.

And when he opens the door this time, it is as if he has been waiting for you. There is no tenderness in his eyes, no affection in his hands as he pulls you into the room. There is no hesitation in his manner when he pushes you to the couch, drawing the straps of your tank top off your shoulders, and palms your breast, coaxing the nipple to rise, to tease first his hand, then his tongue.

And you sigh, and then moan when his tongue travels down and the jeans you are wearing are pushed down and he is between your thighs and you can't think, you can't think, and the tension rises under his mouth until you are begging, begging for more and for him to stop because you can't breathe, and never to stop because you can't breathe, and just as it becomes painful, his mouth is on yours again and you are smothered in your own taste, and he has filled you with his heat and hunger and you explode – you actually see lights behind your eyes and you think you may die – it really feels as if there is not enough oxygen left in the world and when he comes – when he comes – his ragged cursing fills your ears and once again, you are the one who bites, breaking the skin on his shoulder and tasting his blood in your mouth as the explosion rolls through you and you jerk under him.

And when he rolls onto the floor, still cursing, you struggle off the couch, pulling your jeans up and zipping them with unsteady hands, covering your breasts and running a hand through your hair, and leave without a backwards look.

And you run back to your apartment, your hands shaking so hard you can hardly open the door. Everything you are wearing goes into the laundry, and you are back under the pulsating heat of the shower, desperately washing the evidence of him off your thighs and stomach. But your hands slow as the soap slicks over your tender skin, and you have to shake off the memory of hands and tongue and lips.

And when you are clean, or at least as clean as possible, and have changed into sweats, because you can't quite stop shivering, and pulled your hair back into a casual pony tail, and are making dinner – a quiet dinner for two – just you and Devon tonight, as Chuck has a date with Sarah – the door flies open, and you hear your dear boy saying, "Babe? Are you home? I invited John for dinner – I want to talk to him about coming to the Rockies for our rafting trip."

And you turn and John Casey is standing in your living room with that look on his face, the one that says, "I know there are secrets here that no one wants to admit to," and you – you are one of those secrets – and you stand in front of him, your body covered in layers of fleece, and you know he can see to your very core, and Devon is kissing you on the cheek, his hand rubbing your ass familiarly and whispering in your ear, "You don't mind, do you, doll? I told him there would be lots of food. He didn't want to come, but he always seems sorta lonely."

And you want to cry because Devon is so sweet. And you want to cry because Casey is looking through you as if you are nothing more than the cook of the evening, the fuck of the day, and you want to cry because life used to be so simple and now it is not and you want to run away and never come back and you want to be writhing under his mouth again, and you think perhaps you are going mad, not crazy – not crazy, which sounds kind of interesting and noisy, at least – but quietly, silently mad.

"Ellie? Ellie? You okay, sweetheart?"

"Fine. Fine, honey. John, would you like a glass of wine or beer?"

"Whatever Devon is having would be fine, thanks. And I'm sorry to crash the party – the doc wouldn't take no for an answer."

And you flinch, and nearly drop the glass, but then you steel yourself and turn and hand him the deep red wine – wine the colour of blood – and say sweetly, "You know you're always welcome, John."

And Devon beams, and Casey grins tightly, eyes dark with something – some emotion you refuse to see – and you go to the kitchen and serve up dinner.

Because no matter what else happens, you look after hurt people. That's what you do. And if sometimes you aren't sure why, your instinct is never at fault: you can feel the hurt in the room and it fills you until you are not sure if it is yours or someone else's.


	3. Chapter 3: Wake Up Call

_Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended._

_A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Wake Up Call"._

Wake Up Call

This assignment was hell from the beginning. Working with little Miss Perky, Sarah Walker, CIA. Protecting Bartowski with his innocent belief that the good guys win at the end of the movie. Working at the Buy-More as a cover, and getting good at it – the final indignity.

Working with dweebs like Morgan, who was entertainingly afraid of you, and yet never quite as afraid as he ought to be. Watching little Anna flirt and flip her skirt over her head for anyone she fancied, and in the end, she fancied, of all things, Morgan.

Getting the better of Tang had been amusing, you have to admit. Briefly. He sent you a pineapple a week ago. You'd used it for target practice.

Moving into a complex where everyone is friendly, dropping in to watch a game or invite you for drinks. Where long-legged women and tanned successful men live normal, if well-heeled lives. Where Chuck and Devon live decent, all-American family lives, with holiday dinners and family parties and road trips to watch friends play ridiculous games that no one who has played to win, played for keeps, can quite get enthusiastic enough about.

You listen through the bugs in the Bartowski apartment to hours of incidental chatter, to hours of mindless television, to Devon asking Chuck about his plans for five years from now, to Morgan and Chuck beginning one more of their endless debates about which woman was hotter: Ginger or Maryanne, Wonder Woman or Catwoman. Or which animal was stronger: an elephant seal or a walrus. Or which superhero could take out which supervillain – that was a favourite.

To the blips and flak attacks of Doom or World of Warcraft or whatever video game Chuck is using as release because Sarah still won't have sex with him, keeping him always on the edge: horny, desperate, and completely under her thumb.

To Devon and Ellie making love.

You'd listened to it lots of times: every Saturday and Wednesday night since you set up shop, with an occasional quickie some other time during a weekday when they were both off-shift. It had never bothered you before. Why should it? There was no such thing as privacy on surveillance – that was sort of the point.

But the morning after Thanksgiving dinner, when you had woken, fully aroused, to the sound of Ellie sobbing out Awesome's name as she came under him, for the first time you had turned off the sound. For the first time ever, you had failed in your mission. And once you had taken care of your problem, you had turned the sound back on and heard Devon's apologies, his shocked concern over the marks on her throat and breast.

And you had preened a little, and then felt a little sick to your stomach. Those were your teeth marks, your brands on her white skin. And for all the guilt you know you should feel, you feel a little possessive pride as well.

And after that first time, you had listened again. It was part of the job, you convinced yourself – just one more part of the job you loved, were committed to, had chosen to do. You listen, and if you find yourself getting turned on, find yourself re-living your own encounter over turkey and apple pie, well, it's no more than what most single men of a certain age do in the privacy of their own homes.

And then she showed up again, hotter than before, more desperate than before, and this time when she disappeared into the sun, leaving you emptied and gasping on the floor, she took a little piece of you with her. And when her clean-cut American boy caught you off-guard and invited you for dinner, you knew it was a bad idea, but you convinced yourself it was just part of the cover, and you went.

But watching him touch her had caused a strange kind of pain, not one you had felt in a long time. And knowing your presence hurt her too caused an odd kind of pleasure, not one you could name or even begin to understand. It was like pushing yourself to your physical limit, just because you could, and because you might find out something new about yourself if you did. And you weren't sure what you were learning, but you knew it hurt to learn.

No pain – no gain. You lived by that training rule. You were no longer sure what you were supposed to be gaining. But you know about the pain. Yeah, you are good at the pain part of the programme.

And then, the last time. Oh, the last time. She had shown up one last time, and if the first time she had been scared, and the second she had been on fire, this time it was like being enveloped in ice – so cold it froze the marrow of your bones while she stripped you of all pretense and left you in pieces.

She had walked through the French doors into your bedroom, waking you out of a dream, and you still shuddered at how close you had come to not only breaking cover but to putting a bullet through her pretty little head. She had stood at the end of your bed, her eyes boring through you, and had told you that if you ever showed up at her place again, it would be the last act as a whole man you ever made.

You would never know why you bothered to argue; it wasn't like you wanted to spend time with the asset and his family. But for form's sake, you asked her how she would explain your banning from what had become extended family occasions.

And she had said it was her house, and she would take care of it – no one would notice.

It was a shock to you when that comment hurt, burning its way into your gut.

But you had swung your legs out of bed, a smirk on your face, and proceeded to push. You needed access to the asset, you argued with yourself, and besides, no prissy little Miss America wannabe was going to dismiss you so easily, as if you were nothing.

Her eyes had gone big at the sight of you – naked and ready for action, as always. And when you had touched her, she had stood unyielding and cold, but you had seen the fire deep in her eyes, and when she told you to stop, not to touch her, you had ignored the words and listened only to the need running through her breath like lava through ice.

Her dress had fallen to the floor, her body bared to your hands, to your mouth, and this time you took her to bed. You melted her ice, searching for ways to please her, to brig her to the peak of passion until she came apart under you, not once, but twice, crying out incomprehensibly.

But not your name. Never your name.

And when you entered her, it was like walking into the sun – heat that rose off her in pulsating waves. And you never knew what you cried out when you finally let go because your heart was pounding so hard that you were blind and deaf to everything but the feeling of her clenching around you.

But her hands on your shoulders were so cold. And her lips when you searched out her mouth again were icy and aloof.

And when you pulled out of her and rolled onto your back, she stood up, grabbed her dress, pulling it over her head. She stood at the window, the dark night shadowing her eyes, and said in a distant voice, "This was a mistake. It will not happen again. I would rather not try to explain anything to Devon and Chuck, so nothing else will change between us. I would appreciate your discretion in this, but I will tell Devon if I have to."

When she walked out, you felt something. And what you felt was nothing.

And you did not turn on the listening device for a whole day, and just prayed that nothing significant was said. Because you knew her by now, and you knew she would have jumped Awesome the moment he returned to the house, in an act of guilty retribution, in an act of paradoxical female dominance, permitting him to reclaim his territory.

And you couldn't do it this time – couldn't maintain your Super-Spy attitude while the woman who had blinded you and left you flattened turned to someone else and said all the things she would never say to you.

You find yourself watching her, imagining how the sway of her hips would feel under you, remembering the last nocturnal visit. You thought you were being discreet, but the kid catches you one night after dinner, when you don't react quickly enough to one of the awkward, 'social chit-chat' cues he drops on you.

Later, when you are leaving, he catches up with you outside your door and says, "What was that, Casey? Are you checking out my sister?"

You grunt, and he rolls his eyes.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" His voice drops on the word_ hell_, as if he can't quite say it at a normal pitch.

You think to yourself, "I bet Sarah finds that endearing." Your sneer is a little shaky.

"She's pretty, Chuck. Most guys watch her."

Chuck leans closer and hisses, "She's _married_, Casey. Okay, not married exactly, but she and Awesome are together. They live together, and she's … they're … committed to each other." His mouth twists a little, as if even he can't quite believe what he is saying, but then he squares his shoulder and stands a little straighter. "If you hurt her… if you do anything to hurt her…"

Normally you would laugh at the threat. Pencil-necked-geek Intersect-brain is threatening you? He's big, but he's clumsy and decent and …

You grunt at him again, your 'not-the-least-bit-intimidated-so-don't-bother-trying" grunt combined with a little twist of "world-of-hurt-you-don't-want-to know" and bare your teeth. "I don't go where I'm not wanted, Nerd-Herder."

You close the door in his face and, turning to face the door, lean against it. You can almost feel her under you – that first time. The first time you touched her the way you wanted to. You never meant to hurt her.

But your orders are in, and when you take out the now redundant asset next week, you might as well make it a kill-shot for two. Hell, if the look on Sarah's face was anything to go by when you asked her if she had compromised her cover with the Intersect, you might as well make it three for three.

You bang your head once against the door and grab a bottle of vodka as you make your way a little blindly to the bedroom.

After half a bottle and a few hours of the uneasy nightmare-ridden unconsciousness you are used to calling sleep, you decide on a clean sweep: Sarah, Chuck, Ellie, Awesome.

You.


End file.
